Surprise Christmas
by Kadoatie
Summary: A year and a half after his death, Sherlock tries to give John Watson a happy Christmas without actually revealing himself. The consulting detective thinks his newfound friend can help. Epic friendship, slightly AU now that S3 is out.


**Merry Christmas to all of you lovely people! :***

**I was actually eating Christmas Eve dinner the other day when I suddenly remembered that it was the perfect time to write fanfiction. Who couldn't resist the allure of writing cheesy Christmas fanfics, right? So anyway, I spent my entire Christmas morning trying to think of ideas to write, and this is what I came up with, and this is the only idea that interested me. Fics like these aren't exactly my forte, and I'm still unsure of what to think of this, but I hope you guys like it. Think of this as my Christmas gift for all of you beautiful readers. c:**

**And P.S. this was supposed to be posted _yesterday _but fanfiction was being the epitome of 100% douchebaggery and was down for nearly half a day yesterday. Sigh.**

**Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked, because I rushed to get this published.**

**Characters are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Storylines were created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. BBC Sherlock's rights are owned by the BBC. My very broken fangirl heart is owned by Benedict Cumberbatch.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes unabashedly stared at the woman currently manning the reception desk from behind his newspaper. It was a pathetic disguise, he knew - Sherlock practically scoffed at the unoriginal idea of espionage Mycroft had suggested when he had started spying on the woman, but his brother had reassured him in his customary and utterly _irritating_ matter-of-fact tone that, and Sherlock quotes, "People never bother other people reading newspapers, Sherlock, and there's a reason why they don't."

A slight change in the woman's posture and Sherlock quickly shifted his eyes back to the newspaper, sinking a little lower. He knew it wasn't necessary to hide his face so protectively - he had dyed his hair ginger a mere month ago and put on some actors' makeup and contacts before he had left his musty motel room that morning - but he couldn't take any risk of anyone discovering who he was. The consulting detective was so close to bringing down the entire Moriarty syndicate; he couldn't afford to risk anything now, and definitely _not_ for a woman he was stalking for some petty little holiday.

"Excuse me," he heard the woman from the desk say. Sherlock peeked through the edge of his newspaper, intending to figure out who had caught the woman's attention, but was taken aback by the way the woman's eyes were looking intently at him. The consulting detective's disguised forest-green eyes widened imperceptibly.

The receptionist leaned forward on her elbows and smiled at him. "Yeah, you. Come here," she said, gesturing for the consulting detective to come closer.

_Damn you, Mycroft!_ Sherlock angrily thought. He slowly and delicately folded the newspaper on his lap and made his way over to the reception desk where the woman was waiting for him, drumming her fingers against the mahogany surface.

"Yes?" Sherlock said, careful to accentuate his speech in a Scottish accent.

"Why have you been watching me?" the receptionist said, narrowing her eyes at him. Sherlock noticed that she didn't seem very angry, however. The woman was merely curious.

"What makes you certain that I've been watching you?"

"You're a businessman, yeah? That's what you said when you checked in. I remember," she said, tapping the side of her head. She straightened her posture a bit. "And I know it's not really my place to say anything, but do businessmen usually _read_ the Daily Mail tabloids? You don't look like the kind of person who'd be interested in..." The receptionist quirked her head to the side, trying to read the newspaper tucked under Sherlock's arm. "...Cheryl Cole on some random beach," she finished, looking back at Sherlock with an eyebrow.

Sherlock merely continued to gaze at her.

"I tend to get bored at work. I've literally got _nothing_ to do the whole day," she further elaborated, gesturing to the lack of activity around her workplace after a shake of her head. "I've taken to spending my day looking at people and trying to figure out their whole life story," she finished, looking almost shy at her admittance. Her eyes held defiance, however, as if daring Sherlock to make fun of her.

The consulting detective had no qualms whatsoever; in fact, his approval of her raised significantly. He wondered what she thought about strawberry jam and tea and too cheesy romantic e-mails. And corpses, yes, what _would_ she think about corpses in the fridge...

She jostled Sherlock out of his reverie. "But yeah, anyway. You've been spying on me for the past two weeks," the receptionist said. "I'd really like to know why, thanks."

Sherlock straightened up and looked at her. "It's Christmas Day."

The woman's expectant eyes morphed to that of confusion. "Okay? Uh, Merry Christmas?"

"You have no - " the consulting detective started saying but stopped, repeating Mycroft's mantra of '_just don't insult the damn woman, Sherlock_' and '_you'll know you're being polite when you tell her things you'd never dare tell m_e'. Sherlock knew of a lot of women who would be insulted if he'd ever insinuate that it was painfully obvious that they were single, so he rephrased his question - he would need to feign ignorance to finish his mission. "Don't you have anything to do for Christmas? A dinner or something?"

"Are you trying to ask me out on a date?"

"No, no, no!" Sherlock said, shaking his head impatiently. He shuffled his feet, rolling his eyes. "God, no."

The consulting detective expected the woman to feel affronted at his declaration. Instead, she became even more perplexed, waving her hand as if telling him to get on with what he wanted to say.

"So you don't have a boyfriend?" Sherlock asked.

"No, why do you ask?"

"Girlfriend?"

"I don't have a girlfriend, either. I'm perfectly single," she said, starting to laugh at Sherlock's absurd behavior. "You know, I don't get it. You're not interested in me romantically - _obviously_ _not_ - but you're interested in what little love life I have. Why?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "I was just wondering if you were busy tonight."

"Excuse me?" she said, biting back another laugh.

"Are you?" Sherlock insisted.

"Uh, no, I'm not. My adoptive parents actually won this cruise for two around the Bahamas, so they cancelled our Christmas plans. It's just me tonight," she explained. The receptionist adopted a thoughtful look. "You know, it _is _rather strange. My parents are _never_ ones to join any of those raffle things, and yet they still managed to win cruise tickets," she finished. The woman looked directly at Sherlock, adding an afterthought, "And it couldn't have been a mistake either, because the letter was addressed _directly_ to them. How odd."

Sherlock inconspicuously looked at the security camera behind the woman, giving Mycroft a small nod.

"But anyway, no, I'm not busy," she said finally.

Time of the next step in his plan, then. "Would you like to go Christmas shopping with me?"

The receptionist was taken aback. "Christmas shopping?"

"Yes, Christmas shopping. I have a friend I need to get a gift for."

"Aren't you being a little bit too ambitious, Christmas shopping on _Christmas day_?" she scoffed.

"Better late than never."

"You want me to accompany _you_ on your Christmas shopping?" she repeated blankly.

"Yes," Sherlock affirmed, then repeated once more. "For a friend of mine."

"For a friend of yours," she said again rather dumbly. The woman gave Sherlock a look. "And this isn't a date whatsoever. You just really want me to shop with you?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. _What else could it possibly mean? _He drummed his long fingers on the desk impatiently. "So will you be coming?"

"Uh," she started hesitantly. Here stood a man in front of her with the most ridiculous cheekbones who had all but come out of the blue, asking her to go _Christmas shopping_ with her. The woman, quite frankly, had no idea what to do with that information. She contemplated refusing him; after all, they had only just met. She didn't even know his name.

Sherlock took notice, and stared at her with a slightly pleading look. "Please."

The woman hesitated, then took in Sherlock's appearance, trying to determine if he was harmless enough. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why'd you want me?"

"I think you could help me," the consulting detective replied honestly. He employed a charming and hopeful gleam in his eye to encourage her more.

She let out a huge sigh, staring out into and space and thinking about her current situation. A moment later, however, her eyes held a competitive gleam, and she shot Sherlock a smile. The woman finally spoke. "You know what? I'll do it. Sounds challenging enough, and it's not like I have anything else to do tonight, anyway. So, uh," she said, shuffling a few papers to find her mobile phone buried underneath. She found it and checked the time. "I get off at about five-thirty today, so meet me in that Starbucks near Goodge Street? The one near Sainsbury's?"

"Yes, yes, that's fine," Sherlock said, almost preening with satisfaction. He turned around to leave the building, seeing as he had nothing else to accomplish inside.

"Wait just a minute, hang on a tick!" the receptionist called back, wondering why he was leaving so quickly. "I don't even know your name! How can you expect us to go Christmas shopping together when we know nothing about each other?"

Sherlock grinned at the words so reminiscent of the first conversation he had with John. He gave her a fake name. "You can call me Neil."

"Is that your _real_ name, Neil?" the woman said, looking at Sherlock exasperatedly. It was obvious to Sherlock that she could tell when he was fibbing. The consulting detective didn't reply, only giving her an unrepentant grin.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Fine, you can call me..." the receptionist racked her brain trying to think of a name. Sherlock, of course, didn't need to know - he had memorized every single detail about her the first time he had laid eyes on her. "Oh, bollocks. I'm horrid with imagination. You can call me Marilyn, I suppose. That's my full name. No one ever calls me that."

"Okay, Marilyn." Sherlock said slowly. "I'll see you there," he reassured, giving her a nod. As he went through the doors, the consulting detective gave her a fleeting smile and wink.

Marilyn could only stare at his retreating form, wondering what the hell she had just gotten herself into.

* * *

John swore as his phone rang. He peered blearily from the blanket he curled himself into, looking for the source of his annoyance. When he realized he had left his phone in the kitchen, the good doctor groaned loudly and sat up, back protesting profusely.

He probably shouldn't have taken a nap on the couch.

He stood up and plodded towards his kitchen, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he did so. John stifled a yawn as he answered the phone. "'lo?"

"Doctor Watson! Happy holidays!" the overly-chipper voice at the other end of the line greeted.

John looked at the ceiling exasperatedly, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "Happy holidays to you too, Zoe. Is there anything I can do for you?"

The nurse in question released a breath that could be heard clearly over the phone, as if she were afraid that what she had to say would anger the ex-soldier. "Yes, actually," Zoe started slowly. "Doctor Carr just called; apparently his daughter just caught a bad case of the flu and he's opted to go home earlier than expected to take care of her. Poor girl, and it's Christmas season, too!"

"Are you asking me to take over his shift, Zoe?" John asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, I am," Zoe answered. She hesitated. "Only if you're available, though. Is that fine with you? It'll only be until eight-thirty tonight."

John imagined her biting her lip guiltily from her desk at the hospital. He sighed, looking around his small flat. He hadn't bothered decorating - no lights, no tinsel, no sign of any holiday decoration whatsoever. The doctor didn't need to decorate lavishly for a holiday he'd spend alone in the sanctity of his thoughts. There was nothing else to do here - might as well make use of his time.

"Sure thing, Zoe. I'll be there."

"Great! Thanks, Doctor Watson," she said. Zoe then spoke to him empathetically. "I'm _really_ sorry for interrupting your Christmas day."

"Nah, it's fine," John said, swallowing deeply. "It's not like I have anything better to do at home, anyway."

"Oh, okay," Zoe replied, completely oblivious to the turmoil John was experiencing. "Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you, too," he replied, hanging up the phone. John then went off to fetch his things, preparing for another lonely night at the hospital.

* * *

"Okay, what exactly are we looking for?" Marilyn said, puffing hot breaths of air onto her hands to warm them before shoving them deeply into her coat pocket. Her teeth were beginning to chatter; she and 'Neil' had been walking around central London for half an hour now.

"I have no idea. Why do you think I brought you here?" Sherlock replied sassily, looking not the least affected by the bitter cold. He was walking briskly, oblivious to the fact that Marilyn was struggling to keep in sync with him. He didn't have much time; John was expected to leave his shift in a little over two hours. Sherlock and Marilyn had to act quickly.

"Honestly, Neil, do you expect me to do everything?" Marilyn huffed, looking at the tall man exasperatedly. She seemed out of breath.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, nearly causing Marilyn to ram into him. He turned around and looked at her with an unrepentant gleam in his eyes. Sherlock gave her a small grin. "Bottomline? Yes."

Marilyn closed her eyes in resignation, releasing another breath into the cold air. It danced in front of her face and dissipated. "Fine. Only because you're absolutely hopeless," she pointed out louder than usual to get her point across to the man accompanying her. She gave another grunt of exasperation and resumed her walk. Sherlock followed suit. Marilyn then spoke up. "Okay, so tell me about him, your - your friend, so I can try and figure out what to get him."

"His name is John Watson. He's a war hero; He served in the Royal Army Medical Corps as one of their army doctors," Sherlock started saying, and then hesitated, unsure of what else to say. Now that he was actually thinking about it, the consulting detective knew very little about his best friend. Despite the fact that they had both lived together, solved cases here and there with each other and generally spent most of their time in each other's presence, Sherlock never really found out about the little facts about his ex-flatmate. John, on the other hand, strove to know every detail he could pry out of Sherlock. The doctor knew his birthday, his favorite food, when not to talk to him and a handful of other facts Sherlock deemed unimportant, while Sherlock only knew the things he had deduced. The consulting detective felt guilty. Sherlock was at a complete loss as to how he can describe John Watson in a nutshell for the woman beside him. "He - he gets cold a lot. Does that help?"

"Not in particular, no," Marilyn replied while looking and studying Sherlock inquisitively. She seemed worried. "Are you alright, Neil?"

"I'm fine, yes. Thank you," Sherlock replied. He looked straight ahead, determined not to meet Marilyn's eyes.

"He sounds like a good man, this John," Marilyn commented off-handedly, still studying the man beside her intently. "Were you close?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered. He didn't elaborate further.

Marilyn blinked at him, having expected a clearer answer. "Are you _still_ close?"

The consulting detective shook his head. "No."

"Why not?"

Sherlock thought back to James Moriarty, and how bad he threatened and toyed with the both of them just to keep himself entertained; he also thought back to how his reputation all went downhill in such a short span of time, and how ridicule and hostility were the only things John had faced after his supposed death. Sherlock thought back to the emotions he felt when he saw Mrs. Hudson and John and Lestrade mourn for him, and the amazement he experienced afterwards that he had actual _friends _to mourn over him and feel his loss - how he had just spent almost two years around the world ruthlessly assassinating members of the Moriarty syndicate while back in London, more and more people were starting to forget about him.

"We - we had an ordeal," the consulting detective explained meekly, glancing at Marilyn. "A very complicated one."

"Ah," Marilyn replied. She could see how visibly tensed up her companion was and knew wisely when to stop asking questions of that nature, but she couldn't help but feel worried for her newfound acquaintance. Marilyn held his arm as a token of comfort. She weakly kicked a small mound of snow in her path, trying to think of a way to get rid of the awkward tension that had befallen them. "I'm guessing you'd like to be in contact with him again, though, yes? You wouldn't be buying him a gift if you weren't."

"I'd like nothing more than to talk to him again," Sherlock admitted honestly. "John deserves some happiness."

"Is he lonely, John?" Marilyn queried, eyebrows furrowed. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock probably would've been annoyed with this amount of curiosity, but he had no problem answering Marilyn as they continued to walk around London. Perhaps it was because her inquisitiveness was that of a truly curious nature; she had no intention of judging or using this information against Sherlock or John.

"Yes, he is," Sherlock replied, feeling a wave of guilt churning uncomfortably in his stomach, knowing that he was the cause of his sadness. "I'd like to see him happy again."

"Maybe he needs a companion?" Marilyn suggested. She started staring off into the distance, city lights illuminating her face. The holiday ambiance of the city added to the small grin she now sported.

Sherlock took no notice of this, still thinking about what they had just talked about. "Perhaps. I'd like for him to have a friend."_  
_

"Then maybe, Neil," Marilyn said, grabbing Sherlock's hand to grab his attention. She began tugging him along insistently towards the store she had been staring at. "We can go get him one."

* * *

John smiled kindly at the little boy squirming in front of him. The boy in question had come for a follow-up check-up after his bout with pneumonia a week back and was now impatiently waiting for the good doctor to declare him healthy. John imagined he had to be excited for Christmas dinner.

"May I please go now, doc?" he asked for the tenth time since he came, speaking with an adorable lisp.

"Henry, be patient," his father scolded lightly. He looked apologetically at John.

Henry turned to regard his father confusedly. "But I _am_ a patient, daddy, you told me that last week!"

John bit back a laugh. He looped the stethoscope around his neck and patted Henry on the back. "You're quite a handful, aren't you? But I think you're good to go, Henry."

"Yay!" Henry said, jumping (and nearly falling) off the doctor's table. He ran and hugged his father's legs tightly, looking at him expectedly.

The older man could only look at John with an amused smile on his face as he picked his son up. "Thanks again, Doctor Watson. Me and Alice appreciate it."

"It's no problem, Mr. Thompson. I'm happy to help," John replied, moving to shake his hand and ruffle Henry's hair. "You stay healthy, you hear? I don't ever want to see you again."

The boy giggled and waved as his father carried him out the door.

As the door closed behind them, John released a wistful sigh. He stared at the clock on the wall beside him and noticed that he still had an hour and a half before his shift ended. He made his way back to his desk chair and sank down with a small groan. He glanced around the room, looking at the festive decorations his secretary had taken the liberty to decorate his boring room with. His Christmas wasn't much, but at least he was doing something worthwhile. John buzzed in his secretary, "Bring the next one in, Zoe."

Maybe his night wouldn't be as lonely as he thought it would be.

* * *

"I'm back, Neil," Marilyn announced proudly, rolling the small trolley she had beside Sherlock. Inside were an assortment of toys, snacks and other essential products. "Have you chosen one yet?"

"No," Sherlock replied from his Indian-style position on the floor, elbows on his knees and hands steepled underneath his chin. The consulting detective was intently studying the puppies in front of him, trying to decide which one he should take. One of the puppies barked at him. Sherlock made a barking sound in return.

"Well, you better hurry," Marilyn replied, amused at his antics. She checked her watch. "Your friend's shift ends in about an hour. We don't have much time left. Where_ are_ you meeting him, anyway? You never told me how you'd meet."

"He lives near Gloucester Road," Sherlock replied absentmindedly, still examining the various breeds of pups. After a long moment of simply watching the critters, he stared up at Marilyn almost petulantly. "I don't understand why we can't just take one of every breed."

Marilyn laughed. "I may not know John, Neil, but I _really_ don't think he'd appreciate a plethora of dogs waiting for him." She picked up her purse from within the trolley and leaned in to sit beside Sherlock. "Besides, I highly doubt you have that much amount of money with you right now."

"But I don't know which one to pick," Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed, gesturing wildly at the puppies. A handful of puppies barked at the hand and pawed at their cages. The consulting detective glared at them.

The receptionist made a thoughtful face. "It's not that hard, Neil, just guess."

"Just _guess_?" Sherlock repeated, affronted. He threw Marilyn a dirty look.

She merely laughed. "Yes, just guess! Which of these would please John the most, do you think?"

Sherlock's eyes landed on the cage behind Marilyn. It was the first one Sherlock had noticed when he came over. The puppy inside it was staring at him curiously, small head to the side. His tail started wagging at Sherlock's gaze, and he had stood up to regard her visitors, fascinated at the attention.

Marilyn looked at the pup's direction, following Sherlock's line of sight. She held out a hand towards the dog, inviting him to sniff at her fingers. Marilyn smiled as she started lapping at her fingers wetly. "This one's sweet. And not too big, too. She'd be perfect for a flat, don't you think?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, observing the two of them interact with each other. "Yes, I agree."

Marilyn glanced back over at Sherlock, still keeping her fingers in the cage where the pup was now futilely biting at it. "What do you say, Neil? You think John would like him?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Yes, I think he'd like her very much."

Marilyn retracted her hand and stood up gracefully. "Then that's settled then. You stay here; I'm gonna go get the attendant."

As his companion walked away, Sherlock continued to observe the new English bulldog his ex-flatmate would be getting very soon.

* * *

John sighed again as another patient made her way out the door. There were only two more patients waiting outside - John estimated he'd be home at exactly 8:30. There wasn't any rush for him to get back to his flat; he'd probably just pop open the bottle of whiskey he had received that morning (courtesy of Lestrade, bless him) and catch the remainders of whatever Christmas special the Beeb had in store for him.

He arched his back, relaxing as his spine cracked pleasantly. He did the same with his neck. John pressed the button on his phone. "Buzz the next one in, Zoe."

An hour to go.

* * *

"Jesus, Neil. What kind of a name is Gladstone?"

"It's a nice name," Sherlock insisted, indignant towards Marilyn's reaction.

"_Gladstone?_"

Sherlock snarled at her, but Marilyn was only getting more amused. In front of them, the teenage cashier was looking at the both of them quizzically, not sure of what to do next.

"Gladstone is a nice name! I like it," Sherlock all but whined.

"Alright, alright," Marilyn acquiesced with fond exasperation. _Jesus, did he really just stomp his foot?_ She threw her companion another look before ordering a collar for the English bulldog playing absently in her carrier. She muttered an afterthought under her breath loud enough for the man to hear. "Still a ridiculous name, though."

* * *

"Goodnight, Doctor Watson," Zoe said as the ex-soldier walked out of his private office. John nodded politely in return, giving his secretary a warm smile.

"Thank you, Zoe. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Doctor Watson," she replied, studying John. She looked up and down at his figure, silently assessing him. "You be happy tonight, doc, you hear me?"

John absolutely hated lying to other people, and hated lying to himself even more, but Zoe was a sweet girl who only meant well. He shot her a tight smile, hoping she'd let him off easy. "I'll do my best, Zoe. Goodnight."

* * *

"Taxi!" Sherlock hailed, throwing his hand up at a passing cab. The cab came to a full stop in front of him and Marilyn. He climbed gracefully inside, plopping Gladstone's carrier gently beside him. When Marilyn made no move to follow him, Sherlock stared impatiently at her. "What on _earth_ are you waiting for?"

"Wait, am I actually coming?" Marilyn said, looking horrified at the very thought. "You never mentioned this!"

"Of course you're coming, that's why I brought you here in the first place! Get in," Sherlock all but ordered, moving to the side to give Marilyn some room to sit between the gifts they had bought. Marilyn could do nothing but comply.

Amidst a slight struggle with the lack of space, the taxi drove off into the night.

* * *

John winced as another gust of wind blew on the street he was walking on. The Tube was closed for the holidays, and John didn't particularly want to spend a huge amount of money for a taxi.

It was terribly cold that night. His fingertips and ears were just shy of being completely numb, and he felt as if his face were scrubbed raw. John wanted nothing more than to get back to his flat and warm himself up.

He had always hated the cold.

No matter, it was only five more minutes before he was home.

* * *

"Stop here," Sherlock ordered, the cab slowing down in front of the modest building John lived in. He took out a huge roll of pounds he didn't even bother hiding from the flabbergasted cabbie driver and Marilyn, pulling out a couple of quids. He handed them to the cabbie, who took the bills without another word. The driver stared unashamedly at the pair of them as they stepped out of his taxi.

The wind whistled as Marilyn and Sherlock stepped out. From behind them, the taxi slowly moved away. Marilyn raised her collar against the harsh, cold wind. "Is this where John lives?" she asked, looking at the building. After Sherlock nodded, she made her way up the stairs, dropping down the purchases she was holding. Sherlock carefully placed Gladstone behind the bags to shield him from the wind. Gladstone was clawing at her confines, eager to get out.

"You're getting out very soon, baby," Marilyn assured Gladstone, scratching the dog's ears between the bars.

Sherlock checked his phone. He needed to check if everything was still going on as he had planned. After reading the update Mycroft had sent him, Sherlock turned to look at Marilyn, who was still showering Gladstone with affection. He needed to act fast. "Marilyn, uh, I'm so sorry. I actually need to buy something _else_ Gladstone needs," he said, pointing to nothing in particular behind him.

"What?" Marilyn asked. "What else could Gladstone possibly need?"

"A thing," Sherlock supplied unhelpfully.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "A _thing_?" Sherlock suspected she had the habit of repeating sentences she couldn't understand.

"Yes, yes. I need to go and buy it," Sherlock lied.

"But I was sure we got everything back in the pet store," Marilyn said, indicating their purchases, looking bewildered.

"No, we didn't," Sherlock replied shortly. "There's a Tesco's in the street across from this, I'm just gonna go there. You just stay here and wait."

"Are you sure, Neil? I'm sure it could wait until your friend got back," Marilyn started to say, but Sherlock was already moving away from her.

He swiveled to look back at Marilyn, hands up as if to comfort her. "It _really_ couldn't. I'll be back in a tick," Sherlock reassured. He shouted at her as he rounded the corner. "And if John comes back, don't wait for me. Just go!"

"Neil!" Marilyn called out, confused as to what just happened. _Did he just leave me with a dog in the middle of nowhere?_

What a remarkably strange day she was having.

Before she had the time to contemplate further, however, Marilyn heard a voice pipe up from behind her. "Are you alright, miss?"

Marilyn turned around, noticing a man her height in front of her. He had sand-blond, military-cut hair. His eyes, an enticing shade of grey, looked as if he had seen too much to bear. They were both warmly directed at her, however, gazing and looking over her with a slightly worried look.

"I'm - I'm fine," she reassured, putting her hands back in her pockets awkwardly. "I'm actually just waiting for a friend of mine and _another_ friend of his."

He looked at her questioningly, distinctly confused, waiting for further explanation.

Marilyn held back the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. This day could not get any weirder. "My friend told me to wait for him here. He's buying God-knows-what somewhere over there - " she waved at the general direction to which Sherlock had gone " - and he told me to wait for him here. Or something. Or just go with this friend of his and do the gift-giving inside his flat. Speaking of, by the way, do you happen to know who John Watson is?" Marilyn said this all in one breath.

The man's eyes widened marginally. "I'm him. John Watson, I mean," he said, giving Marilyn a shy, boyish smile.

Marilyn felt herself smile back. "Well, John, you've got a loyal friend. I just spent my evening around London with him looking for a Christmas gift, actually. For you," she said, nodding towards the numerous bags and the carrier where Gladstone was still in.

"These - these are all for me?" John said, peering at them. "Holy - is that a _dog_?"

Gladstone barked in return. Marilyn noticed that John was utterly perplexed at the number of purchases in front of him. She watched as John bent down to scratch Gladstone's ear like she did earlier. She felt her smile grow bigger. "Like I said, you've got a good friend, John."

"Who _is_ this friend?"

"Neil," Marilyn replied, suddenly realizing she didn't know his last name. "Uh, just Neil. I just met him this morning, to be honest. I don't know much about him."

He confusedly stared back at her. "But I don't know any - " John started to say before something suddenly snapped inside him. He couldn't even finish his sentence. John was now regarding her with an embarrassed look, looking at Marilyn's current state as if he finally noticed her appearance. "Oh, God. I am _so_ sorry, you're probably _freezing_. You should probably come inside."

"I'd appreciate that, thank you," Marilyn said gratefully, unable to hold back the shiver that went through her. He followed John into the building. "Do you mind this? A stranger entering your flat?"

"I've had stranger things happen to me," John admitted, almost with a mysterious flair. Marilyn hoped she could figure out the whole truth from him. She could tell he was going to be interesting company. John turned to look at her with an almost shy twinkle. "Besides, I haven't even started flirting with you yet. You need to give me a chance."

Marilyn flushed.

He was going to be _very_ interesting, indeed.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood from a distance, watching the two interact with mixed emotions. He longed to join Marilyn as she climbed up the stairs to John's flat but quickly dispelled the thought. Sherlock wasn't done with the Moriarty syndicate yet - there were still a lot of people who could put John in danger. For the longest time, Sherlock had to content himself with watching his best friend from the shadows; had to be content as he watched guiltily as his ex-flatmate succumbed to depression and terrible loneliness. He couldn't stand the idea of John undergoing through any more pain - John was incredibly loyal and honorable, and he was the first friend Sherlock had ever had the pleasure of making. Sherlock Holmes was considered rude and brash by many, yes, and he was also considered to be very cold by a large handful of people, but the consulting detective liked to think of himself as a good friend to his very select few.

Marilyn would be very good for John; the past two weeks of observation had proved his theory right. She was smart and kind, something John usually valued above others, but she also had a very strong and wise personality, something Sherlock thought would add more to her character. Because Sherlock couldn't be there to be a good friend towards John, perhaps Marilyn could take his place. For the meantime. She'd keep John happy until he could safely come back to London. The consulting detective watched as John poured Marilyn some wine into her glass and crash beside her on the couch, where she was now sitting wrapped comfortably in a blanket. The two of them laughed at a joke one of them had shared that Sherlock obviously couldn't hear, already looking as if they've been friends for a long time. Gladstone barked happily in front of them.

The consulting detective took out his phone, looking for Marilyn's number.

_I'm not coming back. I apologize for  
fooling you, but I had to do it. I know  
you've got a lot of questions, and  
hopefully I can answer them all once  
my whole 'ordeal' is over. Tell John  
his good friend wishes him a happy  
holidays. I think you'd be good com-  
pany for him. Take care of John.  
_

_Merry Christmas, Marilyn Morstan._

* * *

**Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only one excited for Amanda Abbington. I'm so excited to see her on the screen!**

**Anywho, love it or hate it? Leave a review and let me know! :)**

**Happy holidays to all of you. ^_^**


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